


A Stolen Zamboni to Start

by redscudery



Series: Scudery's Saturday Night Fic Fest [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Boys Kissing, Canada, Canada!Lock, First Kiss, Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canada!lock AU in which Sherlock is a figure skater and John is a hockey player. Instead of shooting a cabbie, John steals a Zamboni.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stolen Zamboni to Start

As he dragged his gear into the arena, John was feeling pretty grouchy. His injured shoulder was acting up. He’d only come today because Mike Stamford needed an extra defenceman, and he was already regretting it; he didn’t know anyone here, and he felt a little nervous about coming into a group of guys that all knew each other. To add insult to injury, the last minor hockey game of the day was still on; the stands were full of noisy parents watching their kids fall down on the ice, and the hallways were full of shrieking younger siblings. He’d already nearly clipped three toddlers on the head with his bag by the time he got to the dressing room.  
He slung his stick into the rack and chose a spot, hanging up his jacket and unzipping his bag. He kicked off his boots, pulled his shirt off carefully, then his jeans, and he was reaching into a side pocket for his combinations, when the bathroom door opened and someone came in. 

A very tall someone, with curly hair and a black leotard. John was about to open his mouth to apologize when the newcomer burst out.  
“What the hell are you doing in here? This room is reserved.” He certainly wasn’t very polite, and the way he was assessing John was frankly unnerving.

“Sorry. I thought this was the dressing room for Mike Stamford’s team. I’m playing with them at 6.”

“Mike’s group doesn’t play today. I’ve reserved the ice for six.”

“Why did Mike tell me today, then?”

“He’s an idiot. Are you the defenceman?”

“I am. How did you…”

“Hm. You’re a good one, too, by the looks of things, and it’s because of your size, not despite it. Also, given the black marks on your right hand, I think you can help me, if you don’t mind.”

“How?” John asked out of politeness rather than real curiosity, but then again, what was he going to do with his evening now?

“It’s not actually allowed.”

John was intrigued now.

“What is it?”

“Let me just tell you what I need you to do.” 

Sherlock told him.

“Wait, just a minute. You want me to hotwire a Zamboni. We’ve just met, I don’t know anything about you, and I don’t even know your name!”

“I know that you’ve recently come home from deployment. I know you don’t have many friends here. You’re doctor, but you have mechanical ability; your car broke down on the way here and you made it work well enough to keep going. And you don’t have anything better to do.” John gasped.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. Now let’s commit a misdemeanor.”  
______________  
John jiggled the metal gate. Why was he doing this? Boredom? Loneliness? The fact that he was a sucker for tall, dark, and bossy?   
“Hey!” He jerked back, but when he turned around to confront the person who’d yelled at him, he had to adjust his gaze downwards by three feet. Turns out he was being policed by someone who was barely larger than his goalie pads. Her goalie pads, John realized, looking more closely. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen such a small person in so much equipment.

“You can’t go in there, mister. That’s the forbidden room.”

“It’s okay, I’m, um, I’m replacing the usual Zamboni driver.” His accuser didn’t look convinced. “Really, it’s all right.”

“You’re helping the angry man, I know you are.”

John’s eyebrows rose. 

“Who do you mean, now?”

“The angry man. With the curly hair. And the glitter. He jumps high. But he’s angry. Don’t help him.”

“Well, I have to. But that’s my job. Go on now.” Come on, kid, John thought. She was still staring at him, arms crossed.

“SALLY! We’ve got to go! The arena is closing!” With a last look from bright brown eyes, Sally wheeled around and left. 

John waited until she’d gone around the corner, then tried the door again. He was working the lock, carefully, and got it open just as the main lights went out. 

Sure enough, the keys were still in it. Highly unlikely that they’d be gone- after all, who’d take a Zamboni out of an arena?

“John?”

“Is the coast clear?”

“It’s clear.”

John opened the doors and drove the big machine out. He couldn’t resist giving the watching Sherlock a Queen Elizabeth wave as he drove past, and when he saw a spark of laughter in the other man’s eyes, he continued, bowing and waving as he went. 

By the time the ice was clean and John had closed the gates, Sherlock was leaning against the boards, laughing so hard he could barely stand. 

"Do you realize you just stole a Zamboni for me?"

John grinned. “It wasn’t a very nice Zamboni. Look at the puddles it left on the ice.”

“Nonetheless, you better wipe your fingerprints off the steering wheel .”

“I will. Why are you practicing after hours anyway?”

“I want to win a competition. And I need to practice this.” In several quick strides, Sherlock was at full speed. He raised his arms gracefully and leaped, twisting through the air. In the moment before he landed, in the half-light of the closed arena, eyes closed and hair flying, he was utterly beautiful.

Sherlock landed, wobbled, fell.

“Shit!”

The moment had passed, but John knew, with an odd clarity, that the image of Sherlock in midair was graven suddenly and irrevocably in his mind.

“That was beautiful.”

“No it wasn’t, dammit. I fell. I can’t fall in competition.” Sherlock picked himself up and skated towards John.

“I know, but it was good until you fell. Maybe it was the wet ice.” 

Sherlock shook his head. 

“I wish. It was me. I need to do it better.”

“Can I help?” John knew he couldn’t, but he wanted to offer.

“Maybe you can, at that.” Sherlock skated closer to him. John held his breath a bit; Sherlock was really very overwhelming close up, pale skin and long lashes and elegant limbs. He smelled of cologne and cold and fresh sweat, and John could feel himself being pulled into Sherlock’s personal space. Kissing this strange man in a semi-public place was even more dangerous than using municipal vehicles without permission, but he couldn’t step away. Sherlock’s soft lips brushed against his, just briefly, questioning; John lifted his face up for more, but Sherlock was gone, speeding down the ice.

John knew that his life had gotten more complicated and more wonderful when Sherlock’s leap was perfect, this time.


End file.
